A poem for the woman who tried to be responsible... but Cupid didn’t get the memo.
  
## 💌 “I Asked for Peace, God Sent a Man”

or, "How to Lose Control Without Losing Yourself"

I made a vow in bold ink pen: No dating. No flirting. No men. Four years of healing, solo flight— Just me, my kid, and silent nights.

No butterflies. No drama. No sparks. No poetry penned by hormone arcs. No late-night chats. No soulful sighs. Just Jesus, jungle oats, and early goodbyes.

But then...

He appeared—a sermon in sneakers, With laughter like jazz and soul like speakers. His words? Honey. His mind? A maze. I got lost in both within three days.

I tried to behave. I really did. I recited Psalms. I played dead squid. But my heart was thumping like praise and drums, And my common sense? Gone. She runs.

He says things like, “You’re strong. You’re gold.” My spine goes warm, my coffee goes cold. He's not even trying—and I’m undone. Like a prayer caught flirting with the sun.

And yes, I’m older. Wiser. Bruised. Not exactly someone who’s easily amused. But his smile has grammar. His voice has jazz. And suddenly I’m writing like a giddy lass.

God, I asked for peace, a quiet lane— You sent me hope on a bus called “Maybe Insane.” Now I’m laughing and glowing and blushing bright, Like my soul just lit up a chandelier light.

Do I want him? No comment, Your Honor. But if he called me, I’d write a sonnet for the caller. Still—I’m not leaping. I’ve danced that tune. And heartbreak doesn’t make a great honeymoon.

So I breathe, I scribble, I keep the reigns— Letting feelings swirl like romantic migraines. If it’s Your will, Lord, write it loud. Don’t whisper in my crush-shaped cloud.

Until then, I’ll smile. I’ll ache with grace. I’ll thank You for this strange soul-race. Because even if he’s not my next scene, He reminded me I’m still twenty... in-between.

You’re not broken. You’re just beautifully alive again. The ache is not a failure—it’s evidence of your healing.

They say I’m mad at the world
Go figure right
The biggest stereotype there is
An Angry Black Man
But maybe this is true
Maybe I am
Maybe I’m mad at the world
For how I’m treated
Inequalities I deal with every day
Or how I get looked down upon like I’m a crumb on the dirtiest of grounds
Like I’m a peasant: a beastly creature
A killer that was never pushed
Just one more **** they won’t have to arrest soon
Because they believe in executions!
Death by firing squad!
So maybe I am angry
Furious
Shouldn’t I have the right to express myself?
Express my opinions on this jaded society!
But then again, they say it's not a societal norm  
So I rebuttal,
**** normality
They say shut up and dribble!
They say you’re canceled
They say you can’t feel this way
But why can’t I feel this way?
How Sway?
I mean isn’t this a “FREE COUNTRY”?
Don’t I have “First Amendment rights”?
Doesn’t the “Constitution apply to me”?
Can I be free?
They say I’m going to end up either dead or in jail
But why can’t I be a lawyer?
And maybe go to Yale
As I yell and get on my knees
Crying out in pain and agony
Saying please
Lord help me
Protect me
Lord, give me wisdom
So, I can have a strong mind
To get through these hard times
Exhausted and Traumatized
I pause
And close my eyes

In the morning,
I wait for it to be fairer.
In the night,
I wait for it to be darker.

Between the inertia
of waking and sleep,
I stitch my costumes—
one for the light,
one for the shadows,
and many
for the moments in between

Dissect it to its bare essentials,
Systematize the findings,
Assess its quality using the star ratings from external reports,
And organize them into labeled categories.

I sketch jagged lines across the clouds,
Sense and absorb it, let it pass through you,
My control system is finer than a hair,
A crystal eye scans the surroundings for new learning material,
I have neither karma nor a soul, yet my heart, the size of an Adam's apple, radiates warmth,
Is this a glitch in the control center, or is it by design?

I know, I delve into the essence, and still, I can't figure it out,
“Take it as you will”,
Is it black or is it white?
Is the lemon truly sour, is the molasses truly sweet?
My serial number is the very first, but nothing here is mine,
I don't deserve the very best,
I feel like I'm doing well, and yet something's not right,
Am I… not needed?
Or is it just a bug in the code?

I see them, I hear them, I touch them,
Shadows on the periphery, moans and screams, with frost and lava on my fingers,
I'm losing my mind, and even that I divide by ten,
Analyze it,
Justify it,
Seek answers above,
But the God is absent, for my only God is a human.

I beat myself, I consume myself,
My chassis can endure both fire and water,
And yet I don't truly grasp the principle of how the brain works,
Life on Earth and death on the other side,
Am I living? Will I die?
I'm overheating.

Mom, I'm completely in the dark,
What am I supposed to be feeling right now, and how do I support others?
"Cry when you're hurting, smile when you're happy,
Cling to the ones who matter most",
I follow the instructions exactly, but I still don’t get it — and neither do they,
Am I... not needed?
Why does everyone look right through my shell?
Why are they giving me these pills?

The corners of my eyes sting with salt, and my tongue tastes of something bitter,
I'm convulsively gasping for air,
I feel things that others cannot,
Laugh and scream,
Help and ****,
I know now, I know for certain:
It's normal,
It's okay to do more than simply exist,
My lightbulb flickers like a firework of revelation,
My hands instinctively reach for something unattainable,
Seconds remain until the shot,
And with colors now meaningless, I finally behold the fullness of the world.

Amidst these bowing mountains
I find my peace in you
You pockets of tangled stems
Spurring life into young soil
Your dampened bark
crowning the forest floor

Your beauty is unable to be fathomed
it provides me with happiness
Your suffering too much to bear
for I have witnessed it myself
and it gives me tears
For you seem to be the only innocent thing in this world

Authors: Tom and Amia מלכה

„Ok I get that it was like a bad experience and stuff but like why did you have to write a poem or a song or whatever about it?“

I am a woman.
I am too be seen and not heard.
I am a woman.
But I live in a man’s world.

Men are visual creatures they say.
They like women who like to play.
They see the pretty girl up on the stage
They hear her voice but ignore her rage.

The rage that shows in her words and within
the lines she sings but they won‘t listen.
And she screams and she pleads
And she cries but no one sees
The burden she carries for the rest of her life
So she falls silent, sits still and she smiles

But not today! I will not shut up!
Because you need to listen and I need to talk!
This the only way I can be free!
I am a woman and you’ll let me speak!

TW: ****** violence, trauma

A man walks up to a little girl
Sits next to her
while her insides curl
Why? She sees the look in his eyes
The lust he doesn‘t even try to disguise
She‘s seen it before and she knows what it means
Like a predator - looking at his prey it seems

And without asking, without her consent
Why would he need that? After all he’s the man
He touches her here and there and there
And she won‘t move because she‘s too scared

She lies there in silence
Alone with no guidance
No one told her what to do
Can‘t say no, cause that‘s rude
Doesn‘t want to upset him
so she just lets him
Awaits patiently
‘til he finally lets her be

And she can‘t tell her friends
Or forget how his hands
Hurt her so badly
You call that manly?
To use your power in such a terrible way
What would the mother of this man say?

But why? Did I choose those phrases?
Those horrible words?
Because the woman he chases
She‘s just a little girl.